


The Shades In Sorrow

by Silvara



Series: Galdrar Collection [3]
Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Soen no Kiseki/Akatsuki no Megami | Fire Emblem Path of Radiance/Radiant Dawn
Genre: Accidental Bonding, Age Difference, Awkward Conversations, Barely healthy, Bittersweet, Bittersweet Ending, Character Development, Comfort/Angst, Depression, Every (Heron) Nest Lasts A Lifetime, Evolving Personality, F/M, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Slavery, Intimacy, Mild Sexual Content, Morning After, Non-Canon Relationship, Other, Pale Romance | Moirallegiance, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Power Imbalance, Power Swap, Quirk: Melancholy, Repressed Memories, Self-Esteem Issues, Slighly selfish Rafiel, Switch Rafiel, Switch Tanith, Tentative Heron Lore building, dubcon, mild Codependency, mild Devotion, mild Empathy kink, mild Protectiveness, mild dubcon Telepathic Intimacy, non sexual teasing, not quite romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-05
Updated: 2016-01-05
Packaged: 2018-05-12 00:40:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5647600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silvara/pseuds/Silvara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The world has changed so fast... Now Nailah is dead. A familiar terror rises in Rafiel's chest and he smothers it with the same mask of peace. The first face that he truly sees is that of a Beorc, but his mind is still too primal to care before he winds arms around her waist.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Apnée

**Author's Note:**

> Special Warning
> 
> Considering that Rafiel's has has had almost as much luck as Lehran in his life, which would all together amount to :   
> undergoing slavery and the stronger humiliation it implies for a crown prince, flirting with death, witnessing a genocide through fire that took both his kingdom, his title, and his whole kin, being knocked off by wind and flirting with death again, loosing his flying ability, and being half responsible for one of Tellius greatest and longest wars, and finally, risking his life and that of the last members of both his family and his kin...there had to be a very solid thing in his nature and life to help him in holding his soul together. What would happen if Hatari was suddenly removed from his life? 
> 
> This was what I wanted to see when I began writing this: Nailah having died years ago, expect a slightly more selfish Rafiel here. 
> 
> (...There was also a joke about some beorcs becoming devoted puppets if heron laguz hugged them, but, ahem— let's the serious motive be remembered instead.)
> 
> Small note
> 
> Tanith's reference to her 'master' has come frlom her dying quotes in Path of Radiance, where she says something like "My life belongs to my master… It is not my place to die here. Forgive me. I believed all too much in my own strength." Giving her a background of dealing longer with another heron before Reyson or Rafiel was useful, so...there. 
> 
> Special thanks to sir _Droory_ and _CreationsGoneAwry_ who have beta-read this for me. However, since I seldom leave a text alone even after it's complete, if you still find mistakes in the text it's probably my own fault. But if I find any, I'll do my best to correct them. (Namely the flashback parts in Chapter Three; sorry for the conflictual tenses there.)  
>  I welcome polite critique.

The sun is slowly descending on Sienne.

His family has come to Begnion after an official invitation. No laguz feel as exalted as the Apostle about it, but the Heron King had bitterly took it upon himself to attend. This is important in a way.

In front of the palace, the flow of servants, guest, sounds, colors and movements are all a blur, one that Rafiel feels pushing and pulling at him in their inexhaustible dance.

Only time can tell whether it will matter or not, but as a Begnion Empress, it has been years that Sanaki has done everything in her power to lessen the resentment between Beorc and Laguz. Most Clans can acknowledge as much. Yet, the silence of the Empire on the slave trade, added to the pact of the Raven Clan still oozes a fog of grief and mistrust between them all. Then, there is the torrent of pain running from the scorched, putrid, /gaping/ horror of the fire of... The fire.

At the banquet, his father is greeted as a king, and apparently, Rafiel is a royal heir again in their heads. They soon meet with Leanne, Reyson...even Lord Lehran and Naesala—who have probably been invited after the express order of the Empress... He is not even surprised to find Tibarn here as well. Every time he spots his sister's heron daughter, the fledgling is always on the trail of one of Hawk King's lieutenants. His father stands formal, much stronger than a few years ago, and spending all of his free time scheming on a way to get Reyson to give him more grandchildren.

Rafiel smiles and nods, joins his hands and bows whenever etiquette requests it. The dance of faces and sounds goes on and on around him.

Suddenly, the first ceremony ends, and there is a hole in the 'dance' flow. He finds himself slipping out of the pattern. Things slip by, letting him slide out. Silently.

He does not mind. He does not think.

He sees the sunlight through the huge glass windows. And he passes the doors to get a feel of the wind that is rising in the surrounding trees and flowerbeds. The winds, the preserved beauty of the skyline, and the faraway trees both call to him, one after another.

He walks through the streets. There are _too many beorcs_ for his comfort. He brings the hems of his white cape closer together on his shoulders; the longer travel cloak that the hatarian tailors had crafted for him a lifetime ago, before his mate had crossed the sands with him.

Around him, the beorc in armor does not dare to question him as he walks past the gates one after another. His feet pause there and there to catch a noise, a song from the half tamed wilds. Insects, birds, even kind, helpless elementals must obey to the dance of these beorcs.

For himself, he has no duty left.

Little by little Rafiel slips out of the grasp of the city. He has no real goal as his feet just walk onward, keeping his mind distracted, safe. He longs for the scents under the trees and continues on. He is not sure of why ; trees have always feels more welcoming than palaces for him, as far as his memories go.

It does not really matter now.

Everything has changed. Both sides of Tellius have. Only, this one has also cast deep shadows over his father and Lehran's eyes. He can understand why this world has come to value strength and chaos instead of intrigue and order. In any case, there has always been little room left for balance. His Clan has been pressed to undergo change. He doesn't know if it would be worth defending millennial values in this new world, like his father does. Somewhere in his soul, the idea of letting go of his Clan's history hurts, too. He could have insisted believing in lasting peace and serving the balance of energies. But these things are for the living. (His father has always done well by himself.)

He does not see what could be left for him to do that another ...his father, or brother... would not do better.

He is not concerned anymore, because no matter how hard he has tried to honor _her_ will, now he is sure that there is no longer a point in forcing himself to breathe.

Taking a deep breath, he enters under the vivid green canopy. He is not sure of how much time passes, he only vaguely registers the light decreasing through the trees. He is not afraid of the dark.

When he hears the howls of wolves, he feels like emerging from a deep dreamless state. The sun is almost completely set. The animals look hungry and the heron's mind clears. It's a shame that he won't be able to transform first, but maybe they will give him the time to sit before attacking...just a second and he will be ready. It feels like an interesting closure. A quaint one, even. He thanks fate for gifting him with a useful end.

*****

All throughout the ceremony, Tanith has been parading with many squads. There has been a few faces that she had not seen since the end of the Second Goddess War at the Palace, but even now her grade couldn't spare her the endless ceremonies that had come to be familiar to the point of boring her out of her mind. Not that she would let it affect her vigilance, but it would have been a little more interesting to be the one to conduct the guests on a battalion of Pegasus rather than having to gesticulate in an heavy and needlessly shiny armor.

The Empress grants her officers a special vacation, a courtesy for the occasion, and when she finally ends up off duty she feels strangely exhausted and set herself on her way home. She has almost walked a mile when she stumbles upon one of the heron lords, sitting down right under a thin cap of the trees' belt.

He is facing wolves that look every bit rabid. He doesn't look the least bit alarmed but there is a resignation on his face that tells her that he knows what to expect. —Wait it seems impossible; how could he already have walked so far away from the city? Didn't anyone notice?—She doesn't want to understand his intent; the idea of a child of Serenes courting death makes her insides coil.

*****

There is a beorc with a dark armor who passes him like a blur and they...they do something to the wolves.

"Have all herons lost their mind nowadays?"

They shout something with harsh anger…  
He recalls the armor and the sharp tune. She has sung alongside them during the war ('captain' hovers somewhere on the fog of his mind). She circles his body before he feels a hand grabbing his head—hair, to make him look at her. There are two glinting dots in a scowl and her hands feel solid.

*****

The bird is frozen, everything is still blurred in his eyes. He doesn't even lift his head once toward Tanith before he dives onto her waist, bury his face in her clothes, howling strings of words in a foreign tongue. She can't tell whether it's because she killed the wolves or because he is still alive; but she has never seen anyone shake like that, and somehow it feels that if she lets go he will scatter without a sound. _Can Herons fall ill?_

When she focuses, she hears the scarce sobs barely under her hearing range, and without realizing it, the knight releases her breath again. The eyes of the Prince look dead inside—face like a faded painting, a disheveled shivering mess and his trembling is almost violent enough to shake her with him.

"I understand," she says. "I cannot entrust you to anyone here," she says. "And I cannot trust you on your own. So, you are coming with me for now."  
She pushes him a little and firmly grabs his hand, beginning to pull. "I'm going back home."

She has never been casual in her speech patterns around nobility before this war. But the times she has been forced to spend protecting the younger heron Prince Reyson had, alone, burned all her shreds of formalities in front of bird laguz. Fortunately, the war had ended before she had lost patience and let herself resort to knocking the petulant Prince behind his thick blond head to keep him out of trouble...  
But the bird in front of her right now, the oldest Prince is looking horrified, as if she is the one who has lost her marbles.

Before pity wells up, Tanith narrows her eyes. "Do you understand, Your Highness?" She nods to herself and squares her shoulders, because on or off duty, she is still an imperial guard of Begnion. "We will leave now." Then, seeing that he is not about to protest she let her voice soften. "I will come back to the Sienne to get your things tomorrow."

*****

Rafiel feels cornered.

He tries many times to find a reason to refuse. But life has no meaning. _So why struggle..._

Either way is fine with him.

The beorc untangles him from herself but holds his hand firmly as she pulls along. Just like that. He follows without second-thinking.

Already, the world has begun to spin.

Soon, they are flying.

It's strange. Yet as long as he doesn't think about it, he can enjoy it immensely. Slowly, the sun is setting. As the wind rises to meet him—them—on her pegasus. He looks at the stallion with a distant wonder.  
He barely sees the hours pass until there is a cottage, and the pegasus rider is holding a door for him.

...  
It is not Begnion.

Not really.

 _Thanks to Ashunera_ , she doesn't live anywhere near beorc cities. She's close to the dunes, on the middle of green steppes, between the sands and the forest.

Outside and inside, he looks at every sight, drowning his senses in them, drinking the novelty, unable to care to keep anything to memory as she ushers him inside.

The sun sets much too soon. He's glad to find that he is still too surprised by what is happening to think of anything else. By the time is finds himself tucked in a bed, he is tired from the walk and feels his senses slowly fall into pitch black darkness.

Dreamless.

Morning comes.

The knight helps him settle down.

She never says it, but her eyes are daggers during the whole process, two cold stones with sharp glints of blame.

She looks a little murderous and if he cared it would be downright frightening.

Yet he would like to stay here rather than having to return to the city. He doesn't move, but he feels her aura against him without having to reach out.

 _Softer, colder...so much fainter—but_ it's close by and hums steadily.

He can't care for more.

* * *

The second night, Rafiel finds the things he had packed to go to Sienne by the foot of the bed, a few ...what? Months ago? It feels like more and yet his internal clock tells him that it has been but a handful of days.

Now the sun is long set, things are slightly less new than the first night. His mind gets slightly louder than before, threateningly overwhelming again. He looks for any diversion to avoid thinking.

Minutes grow, painfully slow, and the search turns into a yearning.

When then there's a knock on his bedroom door, he jumps out of his skin, heavy heartbeat now pounding in his throat.

Before he can answer, the beorc is inside. Something, somewhere in the back of his mind, is contemplating expressing annoyance for her intrusion on his privacy—but the rest is _glad_ because she is a breach in the overwhelming spiral of his emotions.

"Not very sleepy, are you," she remarks. The door knob is still in her hand as she leans back against the post. Rafiel's mind registers very little, but there is something thinner, lighter—still white—about her clothing by night. There is something regal about her too, even when she is relaxed or behaving casually—He gathers his clothes and his wings open a little in nervousness. He looks down to the bed sheets.

The beorc hums. "I thought as much." There is no more than business in her voice. She never waits for answers; she throws safe guesses and narrows it down from his reactions. He's thankful for it, because he couldn't care to form words—hasn't since the death of his mate.

It's good not to have to force hollow smiles any longer. In this place, anything can happen. It keeps him on the tip of his toes.

"Here, I've got cards. Let's play something."

She settles down on the bed, cross-legged. Something, somewhere in the back of his mind, wonders if the captain is really that flippant or if he's a special occasion. _Not that it's important._

"Any game in mind?"

He freezes until something clicks in her eyes. She quickly snickers at herself and throws her head aside before turning the movement into mere interest for the game. "Mh, perhaps Anima Dots will do."

He repeats the game's name on a tuneless whisper as if tasting it. He feels so far away.

"I'll teach you." She is shuffling the deck and he feels comfortable blinking, just watching things unfold in her hands.

* * *

The following days are an undistinguished blur when he tries to recall them. Until now, the beorc has always found a way to meet him before the first hour of the evening, right when the sun begins to set. He is usually up before her, but he goes back to bed as soon as he has done minimal cleaning.

Most mornings she is away with the pegasus. But mornings are easier. He can lose his senses in the scenery, entertain himself with the menial chores she has not yet done. (And cooking. Especially fish. He has no experience but it is for the best.) The sun enters far into the house and his room. He doesn't feel the need to leave. He doesn't leave it at all.

Until she comes back and half drags him into long flights under a sky both clear and aflame. Then they walk half of the way back. Their pace is slow but never enough to be truly quiet, and she makes _sure_ he follows.

Then he is tired, all of his body and mind content with the exhaustion. He discovers her house and the surroundings, plants, trees—even the distant rice fields... All is still new and he has no strength left to think about anything serious. It seems that she always has a hand on him, a part of her body touching his whenever she is near—now something in the back of his mind wonders if the murderous glint in her eyes were just for the faces who have left him stride away from the main city even though everyone knew that he was still grieving.  
...

Without meaning to, he learns to recognize her from the way she holds him before he notices her face. For him, her features are just an eternal image of stubborn strength with two small pebbles of light seared in it. (He is not sure of the color...nor is there a reason to check.)

He avoids beorcs and laguz alike, and she doesn't force him into meeting anyone. But all the time that she doesn't spend at the court she is by his side, and rarely leaves him on his own. As if she is apprehensive of it.

Her every move is skilled yet plangent, always moving and making him spin as often as possible in the process—as if his life depended on movement.

She is trouble, but easy to follow. So he doesn't care either way. He is not going to resist.

* * *

It is the end of the evening. The beorc is eating some kind of dried locusts with wheat grain today. (Has she ever eaten meat? ...He does not remember.)  
She catches his gaze into her plate—his vegetables and bread are barely touched on the plate between his hands—just enough to avoid having her insisting on his nourishment.  
"They have been popular in Daein for a while. It appears that locusts are higher in proteins than fish..." she says, sipping water with something like mirth in her eyes. "I doubt that you would agree, though. ...Nutcracker."

There is a silence and he blinks.

"We used to eat insects too, long ago..." he croaks out on a quiet tune that comes louder than intended. He feels like his voice is echoing on the walls long after he has shut his lips. There is no sign of surprise from her, though—some part of him is grateful for this. Still, he feels inadequate, out of his place and time.

She doesn't lift her head; her spoon never stops its momentum. But her body language tells him that she's rapt from hearing him.

"Really? I'll have to try to cook some for you then."

He doesn't add anything afterwards but something at the back of his mind feels guilty for making her worry. Not that it matters. She seems happy the rest of the day, which means that she is just a quicker whirlwind and he is spinning faster.  
...He would feel bad for how hard she's trying. But he has never asked anything of her. (Or that's not quite true, but he hadn't been fully conscious of his actions when he had hugged her.) So he shouldn't feel concerned. Moreover, she's going to tire of it, get bored sooner or later. He just had to wait. He has unfathomable amounts of time. She has only the span of a beorc.

* * *

Another day passes, then another night. At some point in time, while his mind is focused enough to hear her, the knight says something very ironic. He doesn't realize that something resembling a smile is piercing through the gloom, barely curling his lips; before he sees a blinding glow of elation on her face. (It is getting hard not to care about guilt. Something in the back of his mind feels like sobbing, begging her to stop and get on with her life. But he doesn't think she would listen.)

Whether they are alone or not, she is somewhat unpredictable; enough to make him physically wary every time she's nearby; enough so that he doesn't have time to do anything but focus on her.

The only change as days come and go, is that he does so with bland entertainment instead of raw wariness now.

She is never gentle, except when she touches him and she is never patient with anything else in her life. Her words are much worse than her deeds, none even remotely kind. But he senses that they are even worse when she wants it; without probing he feels that she is mindful of him. He begins to suspect that she's careful to not let him settle down, or feel comfortable; that she knows that he is running away from his mind and she doing her best to cover his escape.

Sometimes he hears voices outside, late at night, after he's lying on the bed she gave him.

Not afar, yet low, worried, bargaining. The worry comes from different voices, some ring with distrust, others suspicion, and there's an iron stubbornness in each of the pegasus knight's answers.

This time, though, there is a voice that speaks with a louder aura than the others.

"What has possibly crossed your mind, Tanith?" It seems that the Empress herself has moved to assess the situation. If he felt the will to feel anything he would have been somewhat honored—may the Empress concern be for ethical or political reasons.

Even with an empty mind, he can tell that there has been too much ado about slavery in Begnion not to make a fuss about his isolation. Even if the Empress trusts the pegasus knight, the words of one person alone will not suffice after this long... There is a roar and the noise of much more beorc weapons being drawn than he would have expected. The brink of an upcoming battle is an aura that he knows too well—it jerks him out of his room and bring him out in sleep clothes before he can think.

There are many different figures facing the knight barely a yard away in the field of grass behind the cottage. All of them freeze when he appears but he pays it no mind. Gathering what he can of his wit, he bows and forces a smile trying to appear reassuring, not looking at anyone specifically.

"Please... Tell my father that I am fine. Tell him...that I am about to go on a trip," he says, barely able to voice the important parts, "that I will only see him on my return...so it is simply useless to worry," he finishes, voice straining not to fall to a whisper; he nods diligently before hurrying back inside.

Now the Empress is probably more worried than before because of his way of speech; feeble vocabulary and no trace of any kind of formality—but he doesn't feel like a prince; he hadn't for years and he has just lost the strength to uphold the standard masquerade.

He just hopes that it will be enough to quell things...of Anyone who may worry after his silent absence. He tries not to think about his father, sister, brother...but he deeply thanks whoever has prevented the Hawk King from storming through the door of the cottage.

There is one last visit, then no more for a long period of time.

He breathes and closes his eyes, wishing that he could simply never leave his bed again.


	2. Piqué

In the primal space of Rafiel's mind, time has no weight, no tune. He know that it stretches but doesn't want to know more.

... There is another sleepless night.

The beorc did not leave him the time to dread it, but it was bound to come... The captain cannot bring him everywhere with her, she does not have infinite energy...still, she arrives in his room before he can blow out the last candle.

As she closes the door, a scroll in hand, he is still hunched over the nightstand, stopped in his tracks and unable to remember what he was thinking before she came.

Joining him as he sits, she shows him her scroll without more ado; soon they are discussing history and fiction. Or something close to that. Half of his mind has no idea of what she's reading even now.

She is mid-way through the scroll when he moves a hand and silently set it on its canvas, palm spread on the crisp texture laid on her crossed legs. His movement is shaken but detached; his eyes watching the gesture as if it's a pure concept without matter, without importance—just like the events around him.

The knight pauses her reading and follows his arm up to the curled tendrils leading to his head.

There are words in his mind but the one that rises is "Why?"

He doesn't feel the will to develop nor the strength to make sure that she heard. He feels exposed; forgotten on her lap, his fingers, slowly curl close.

Her hand finds a way between them before they are completely shut.

The beorc's hold is warm, solid. It gives him the strength to turn toward her, sliding his gaze up her profile just as she has one second before.  
He asks again. He needs to know now. A faint sense of sourness coats the inside of his lips.

"Why would it matter if I am here?"

The lifeless look in his fogged eyes says that he doesn't only speak of Begnion, or her house.

"You must see that my existence is meaningless." His inflection sounds like he's finished speaking when he adds, "Yet you insist...on...movement." His voice is made of tuneless tides, evenly rolling sentences, thin, crisp words, phantom-like sounds. But he chooses to say 'movement' in lieu of 'life'. Apparently, he stills feels bound by honor in tradition and some things remains taboo even to his half-conscious mind.

"Your Highness..." she sighs, somewhat moody. "Do you need to ask...this is stupid."

There is hidden amusement in her exasperation, but her expression is mostly worried. His doesn't find the will to focus enough to listen to her heart, but there's a sort of jumpiness, terror showing from her stillness. Even if he's not used to relying on reading body language, he can tell she's trying to suppress it. She looks like she might break glass. It's a little amusing...but he is unable to feel amused.

His eyes are away, evading. She takes his shin and won't leave him room to escape hers—but he doesn't feel ready to connect with anyone even in so small a gesture, so he looks at the line of her nose instead.

"Just with your songs, you would be precious to any person in their right mind. I haven't seen one creature to lay eyes on you who hasn't done their best to protect your life."

"Then...with a sore throat I am as useful as a painting—" his voice is quiet, grounded even though long nurtured love for traditions rises an underlying shame in it—she puts a thumb across his lips before he finishes.

He hears wind sweeping between the cracks of the windows, hissing a discreet howl that jolts him out of his gloom for a second. The sound raises goosebumps on the nape of his neck...

But he doesn't regret his words.

Kindness and stern worry radiate from the body of the beorc woman sat in front of him.

"This doesn't become you," she simply says, her voice a low groan, but the tune more pained than chiding.

"Neither humans nor laguz would want to live in a world where...you don't exist. Your kin gives us strength in hope. You give us...a reason to better ourselves." She is gently frowning now, as if he is playing silly for not understanding something that obvious. "Because your existence is the proof that we have not completely ruined our words, behaving like mindless greedy beasts—all of us. You are a reason for all on Tellius to tolerate each other...to maintain peace. Your traditions have meaning for every one of our races; even more so because of what this country has done." _Does she means Begnion?_  "Please, do not treat them lightly. They are precious because they are…" she searches the right word, something that can weight in the end. " _Useful_ ," she decides and nods satisfied.

His hands curl again, but the one in her grasp cannot close itself and he feels light-headed. Blind with unshed tears.

"Besides...from what I have seen during the commemoration, it is plain even for me that Lord Lorazieh needs a helping soul to explain your heritage to Lady Leanne, Lord Sephiran and...Reyson. I would worry that their behavior could kill him from exasperation."

Only decades of taught countenance prevent him from breaking in tears and shaking his head in denial.

He gropes for something to alleviate the pain of being alive—the cloth on her waist is ruined in seconds. He can't let go. She kneels up and engulfs him in her arms, allowing him to drinks in her embrace, as in a strong nectar; the heron empties his mind, focuses on basic senses. He almost feels the rolling of muscles on her stomach, stretching up and around her waist, above him, her frame feels grounded like a mace, lean, blunt and solid.

Barely less full than—he bites his lip until he begins to taste blood and presses his face in her middle, soaking her belt with further tears of denial, his arms never leave her, entangled somewhere in her clothes between her shoulders and waist. He doesn't sob, but the world is shaking like an earthquake and it's terrifying—until she moves her hands in his hair. There is a tranquil warmth in her caress as it lowers on his face, pauses on his cheek... He swallows before trying to speak.

"It is...good if my sojourn is not personal." Eloquence can get lost for now.

There is a silence and she seems to consider his words for a while.

After a while, the knight grabs his shin—her palm is cold now. (It feels burning.) He closes his eyes.

"As if you made that possible."

Trying to understand, he peeks up, but her eyes don't burn him anymore; she looks both aching and grudging.

He blinks and she has cast these emotions aside, smiling again in her usual fashion.

"You can stay as long as you want. It can only be a blessing to house you," she almost mouths a word but presses her lips shut in time.

Rafiel considers her words and evades her gaze again. "Me? You'd be more blessed with my father I think," he says evenly, treading thin between irony and honesty, _to alleviate the atmosphere,_  he explains to himself. (But he feels already rebuked by how lame of an excuse this makes.) "Or Leanne..."

"Oh shut up." She stops, her mind briefly struggles to explain herself. "I won't leave you one way or another. Don't ask me why. I can't explain. Just accept it."

"Then, sorry" Words are painful like cutting glass into his throat. His fingers are digging into her skin like talons now, her clothes no longer a boundary to his distress. He attempts a light laugh but it breaks into a sob and he is still for a while until he finds his breath again. She feels nervous now, in his arms. But not for the reason that he wants. He lets his hands roam lightly up against her frame, watching their trail from behind a fog, never untangling himself from her, he kneels up—and would be towering over her but his bent head stands level with her face.

"Because I'm afraid..." He breathes in, emptying his world of anything but her grip around of him "that...I... I will disappoint your regard for Father's traditions. If you..." he stumbles on his words, "this is not enough. I am not...going to be patient." Not now, not like that, not when little matters anymore—they are alone; no one else is looking up to him for example here. And... with two previous lifetimes of sensible actions already, perhaps he can indulge just once _right now_ while he desperately needs her touch _like air_ beyond reason— _The heron prince quiets his heart._

Touching her forehead with his own, he briefly looks into her eyes before blinking down to her lips and struggles a little in order to keep his own half-an-inch apart without letting any feelings catch up between them.

*****

Does she have a choice? Granted, Tanith can overpower him and even if he is noble, he is not likely to raise a fuss, but can she push him away after what she has said? She cannot afford to have an opinion here. He doesn't seem to realize it, or he simply does not care. Or maybe he wants her to face the weights of the path she has taken.

She doubts that he is able to think through the terror that seems to lurk in his eyes or the despair of his clutch, though. Yet this was not something that she could have expected...

*****

The woman has not moved yet and he feels emotionally exhausted. He is beginning to feel a strain in his neck, the fog is clearing minutely and pain fills up his mind again. Her face is a raw expression of alarm until he cringes. She sees it somehow, and slips a hand behind his head to secure his position. But she is still looking at him quizzically while he makes a point to look only at her lips, only letting his forehead connect to hers. He has no intention of misleading about anything. His skin is burning with yearning and he feels something well-up in his throat, he is not sure what, but he considers just bridging the gap rather than asking...her lips taste like metal. ...But has she been the one to... He sighs, painfully _grateful_ , because her hesitation has vanished and she gets more assertive with the kiss—just enough for him to forget himself.

Their bodies part too soon and there are parts of his skin burning, knotting in anguish and despair for a touch, solid warmth, raw intimacy...the security of a new altar.

Like a passive observer, he opens his eyes in slits to lean on her ear while his trembling hands decide to look for seams in her clothing. He's surprised that his voice still holds together when he ushers as many words he can to provide an explanation. It turns out sounding more like a justification to his ears. "I cannot wait..." he simply says.

She responds positively and helps him to shed his small embroidered veil, before grasping the thick linen of his nightclothes. Before long, he can feel the muscles of her stomach bare under his fingers, moving against his solar plexus, there is no longer a part of his skin left ignored by her soothing touch and he traps her on him, arms woven up and tight around the nape of her neck. Her heartbeat is growing a little erratic, but when her hands reaches his hips, she hesitates. Then, she stops lavishing attention to his ear until her breath is disciplined again and her heart has found a reasonable pattern.

"You are not yourself," she whispers, drawing back just one inch. "How can I know that this is really what you want?"  
_What?_  His brows are drawn, his hands moist and his wit is everywhere but home but—but he manages to recomposes himself from sheer will, stops squirming and closes his eyes. (His head doesn't feel hindered; she must have put his hair out of the way when he had brought them down—he is glad that the neverending blond tendrils have not strangled them both yet). Once his breath is calm enough to speak in a dignified manner, he gives a meek shrug.

"I find no reason," he states distantly, "for this to matter...regardless of...the outcome."

*****

"But—" She doesn't want to ask but she cannot throw every care to the wind. If anything, her mind has always been deeply ingrained with a sense of duty; so she blurts out something about a child.

She bites her lip to resist from fretting and she has to resort to all of her discipline to dare to look down at him again.  
He looks distant, gaze lost aside and she becomes suddenly aware of too many details in the room. She shakes her head.

"It is not that I don't—huh," (she struggles to contain her blush and silently damns herself for reacting like a tad) "but...you are—I'm...human." Choosing her words seem a little tricky around him. _To her defense, she had never expected to become this close to a laguz._

Then his face is completely blank. He doesn't move a hair but talks quickly right after her. "I'm barren." She has to strain her hearing to catch his words. Then _oh._  Many tiny things suddenly clicks together in her head.

She tries to tie this all up again; when sweep him into a new kiss, he feels very willing until her lips descend on his neck and he grows less responsive for a while...as if hesitant.

She lifts her head again with a silent question...and there is one in his glance, mirroring hers. His eyes are so deep and sad that she forgets how to breathe for a second. She tries to decipher the emotion in them, _but..._  she blinks. Is he feeling responsible of her?

 _Just because..._  She breaks from his embrace and bites one of her lips ; silently cursing herself for her stupidity—and him as well, for thinking that she may change her mind for something like that!

...  
Once upon a time, a Prime Minister had toyed with her. Now Persis belongs to the Empress and Tanith has no master besides her ruler. The end of the Second Goddess War has left her with a greater taste of freedom than what she cares for.

Now, there is a Prince who seems to need a little of guidance and she doesn't see how he could be a worse subject of allegiance than her previous one. She could envision...no, she will serve this Prince. _As long as he will allow it or until her end comes._

This time, when she goes down on him, it is to sear her will on his skin—it would be rude to take it slowly, yet he is doubting her decision. She feels entitled, as a woman of her word, to unravel his expression a kiss at a time in order to avenge her pride.

Her last coherent thought is filled by the urge to find out if male herons can sing out of tune.

<hr>

He has watched her fall asleep below him (heaving off aside just in case his weight smothers her face in the mattress—how they have come to this precisely, he is not sure. He just knows that this woman is willing to give as much as take...and it is new. Different from the two others lives he had known. Once again, he will have to attune to the segments of his fate amidst the song of Tellius.

But it may be interesting, too.

There is a fainter aura of fulfillment that the woman softly radiates, and Rafiel lets his lips curl up a tiny notch...though something in the back of his mind is a little ashamed to realize that he cannot remember a cause for her satisfaction. He has not felt the mental energy to care at the moment...but he has no reason to feel regret now that he sees her glow with contentment. Her expression, the heron muses, heart beating once again on the even measure of Ashunera's songs, her expression reminds him of a moment, so very long ago, when he had been but a nestling who just learned to fly.

It also reminds him of another face and voice...elegant white wings...the scent of fire— _that line of thought is even more unstable, he reminds himself._

There are too many reasons for what he had done to the knight—a beorc even—to be wrong by the standards of both of their races. Almost as many that he can find for this to turn out somewhat acceptable. He doesn't feel like being responsible or even remotely logical; she doesn't feel like she can break easily; he just wants to continue holding onto her.

He is used, tired of the song of life; anything that is his alone will sooner or later be torn and lost. Yet, he doesn't have to be wary of that fact with the knight because with her it is certain and he has an idea of the number of years to count down. At best, she will dim and flicker off in a blink of time. There will be no surprise. He is already braced for the fall.

The sun is barely up now. He had waited for it minutely even since she had fallen asleep. Trying to keep his mind afloat from the tides of his thoughts.

Also... He adds another hand to cover his face. There were papers, light scrolls, many items of light weight in the room. As every bird laguz, he used to be mindful of the movement of his wings whenever inside another tribe's house. Yes, but...yesterday. Too many surfaces are completely empty this morning. The stools, window benches, table, _shelves_... He doesn't dare to risk a look at the floor. But well, it cannot be worse than the blankets. He could almost facepalm but settles for a sigh and decides not to worry about this yet.

...Still, there are a lot of possessions in here, even though the house in itself is nothing close to opulent.

...  
He...feels...like waking from a long slumber to suddenly find someone with a face by his side, with her own life and troubles... How does she afford to feed him this much variety, where has she slept until yesterday? The knight must have been sacrificing a lot of her comfort to house him in their arrangement up to now. How long could it have gone before her health would have been impacted?

Even if they can share the bed from now on, and commonly agree to set to a diet based on the locusts and larvae from Daein; before months, he will have to hope for his father or Tibarn to decide to send him some goods.  
But he couldn't exactly accept his father's support yet refuse to face him, and, that would mean facing King Tibarn and Lord Lehran as well at least...

...  
_Lehran._

There is an instant of frozen shock. The heron prince feels his wings stiffen and a pitch black despair slowly begins to gather at the door of his soul.

_Why does he remember only now? By Ashera...!_

Trying not to let a panicked tremor seize his hands, he lifts one to his face and slowly covers his eyes. By Ashera—Ashunera, he swears silently, as if either part of the deity has ever had a saying in the laws ruling over mortal bloods.

He clears his voice silently; he wants to try right away...but he doesn't want to wake her up with his galdr—his voice.

But...not knowing is maddening.  
_Of course the outcome of this night was important!_ He feels stupid for risking the most useful ability he has so easily, and with a beorc with whom he doesn't share any set feelings. Well the woman matters a lot to him in more than one way, but—oh Ashera~

When she stirs besides him, Rafiel feel all of his thoughts desert him.

He is suddenly ready to jump at the slightest warning. Fear and worry plagues him for more reasons than he can count.

She looks at the half bare mattress and turns her head toward him. He is able to breathe again, slowly, when he knows that though she is tired and exasperated with the bed, the love in her smile is genuine.

She extends a hand, and her touch is still the one he has grown used to during the weeks.

Her breath is barely erratic as she turns on her back and leans in a way so as not to shade him from the sun when she kisses his cheek, then proceed to his forehead; he is already closing his arms around her and burying his head in her neck.

Now that everything can happen he feels at loss for words again. He can just hold on, fingers clutching and releasing her skin minutely. "Please... Please... Never stop moving..."

It takes her a while to understand what he means. Then she freezes—her schemes have been laid bare, and so is her face—walking on thin glass again. But this time it doesn't looks amusing anymore.

"As you wish, your High—" He clutches her hands hard before fully knowing it. She looks surprised but drops her word.

He wonders if she will call him by his name, now. Or anything she wants  _but this title_.

"I promise." She frowns. "Stubborn nutcracker."

He lies tiredly under her gaze for endless seconds.

...  
Maybe he will still be able to sing; after all he would not be able to give her children anyway, and maybe that makes a difference from Lehran's predicament.

That hope is a thin one, but also the sole that he has—he cannot imagine being wrong, _cannot, will not_...

He barely registers that he is cringing but as soon as it happens, he feels himself being lifted up and off the bed by his arms, while she is already chiding him for laying in bed so long into the morrow.


	3. Altitude

It feels to him that he has been on Tellius for ages. Always beginning anew, again and again and again...

For months now—almost a year, his life just is a succession of shorter breaths; an effort to pace his life to the lifespan of those who matter. There has never been many races that strived as long as herons.

He has thought about the Wolf Queen lately. It still feels strange to imagine that someone larger than life can someday fall into silence...

Before knowing it, he finds his hand looking for another in the bedclothes.

The beorc...Tanith...turns around, with a lost expression. As if she had flown for too long and cannot recall where she has landed.

She smiles faintly and mutters something that turns out as "Hello master."

For one moment he is left wondering, because it has been eons that he has never heard of beorc being made into slaves and she cannot possibly have been alive back then—she sees the expression plastered on his face and guesses that there is something amiss.

"My lord," she corrects tentatively, and he manages to break from surprise to shake his head as if trying to help, as he is growing dubious and amused.

But her face lights up in victory. "My Prince," she affirms, proud of having found the correct one, but—"No." She frowns with aggravation and with a sassy voice shift for "Reyso—" but there is a second of doubt here and her eyes widens in shame, almost as round as her half open mouth, fully awake now, able to realize what she has just said.

"Oh Rafiel..." She cringes "Oh my _goddess_ ," dives into the mattress, face aflame, and he let a laugh escape.

*****

Is he laughing? 

From up close, the sight of mirth on his face, against her heart, is blinding, numinous.  
She isn't sure make to make of it at first, but behind the pity and affection in his gaze...there is nothing sour.

In the bird's eyes, she sees something else, something well-grounded, the glimpse of a strength that doesn't rely on senses, but on patience. ...She has long become used to the means of the Prime Minister who had really ruled Begnion. So, perhaps she shouldn't be so surprised that the crown prince of Serenes, who would outlive most people on Tellius would have some layers to his character...

She feels small—there is a little girl somewhere deep in her heart who is glowing with pride and could easily grow carefree if she could hear that laugh more often... She is quickly losing against her own elation until—wait why is he is laughing already?

Well... Even if he doesn't believe her explanation, <i> _she—a solider of Begnion—has made a Prince of Serenes laugh_.

*****

Rafiel is unable to stop smiling—now Tanith is swearing that there is no way for her to confound him with his brother, or that there is anyone else that she could mix him up with, really; she is just very bad at coherent thinking on waking, and he reassures her—but enjoys every minute of it.

Of course, there is no doubt on Tellius that the Reyson he now knows would rather die than lay with a beorc. Anyway, to connect this strongly with another on a whim is impossible without impending the strength of their _galdrar_  for a long time, may the partner be beorc or laguz.

And for all of his love of hawk customs, he doesn't think his brother so careless as to imitate... (Ah. Well...Reyson _has_  forced himself to eat raw meat once. True. But did that compare with risking his seid magic?) No, _he_  was the only heron on Tellius careless enough to do something like that, so even though his own galdrar has never failed him, he has lost any right to chide his brother).

But the captain doesn't have to know any of that. Does she?  
He likes to imagine that he is the only one to have heard how fun the ever serious Imperial Begnion captain is by mornings.

He can't help but play doubt a little—because she's too fun to pass it—and it dawns on him now how much he had missed teasing his nephews and younger sisters, an eternity ago. If he looks beyond physical strength, endurance, stubbornness and differences in their rates of maturation, the captain is still incredibly _young_  in years, and knows so little about this world.

_And it is relieving (he is not a thing to keep, any more than a title to use; she cares about his opinion) ...it will have to do as proof for now._

Perhaps...perhaps, at least and after all, he can still be useful to someone.

* * *

 

Time passes. It has been long since the heron prince has been close to a beorc in any way, prior from this lady knight; long enough for a lot of things to be discovered again as if they were new.  
Many are much less gloom than he expects.

Now, he doesn't need her to spin him as much as before—he is amazed that she manages to move still, after so many times, with such a fallible body will dull senses. It's difficult, but he begins to respect the merit of tools. Crafts. Schemes—if only because it may be the only thing that beorc have to strive, and to deal with their own chaos.

He is still not ready to mourn, but when he thinks about it, his world doesn't crumble down anymore. Now, the emotion has become almost manageable when he hears Nudi's or Nailah's name.

One day, Rafiel wakes to find her looking at him.

His knight looks tired, barely awake, but radiating victory. (She has finally managed to rise before him today.) She pecks him with a surprising dexterity despite of the fog in her eyes. He begins to smile when she greets him in a strange manner.

The pet name she chooses brings forth memories old of thirty years, all in sounds and shapes that he had never cared to recall.

Apparently, remembrance comes with nausea—the feeling makes him pull a face a second before he can cover it with a hand. Mere memories can hold such power over him even now, can't they? He resent himself for letting something as neutral as 'songbird' ruffles his feathers in the wrong direction.

Despite the time, the distance, and all of the things that Nailah had called him in the meantime... (But Nailah is a different part of his life, like a vibrant dream of freedom and equality, a distant life, infinite and so short, that has fled from his grasp with his joy and love for life...) Perhaps it is because he is on the wrong...the _right_  side of the desert again, now; perhaps that here, he can no longer escape the demands of reality any more than he can chose which part of his life has been real or not.

He swallows and panics a little. Because there is a knot in his throat and he feels a galdrar of Bliss rises in his chest as his mind has already drifted back to that day...

~A tight cloth tying his wrists together, the rhythmic of feet mercilessly pounding on soft dew-covered grass, the utter uselessness of his Galdr of Sorrow, his memory of the darker dirges he had learned during his years among the Royal Sentinel comes with _hesitation_ , because there are very strict rules and this does not apply, now it would be self-centered and the slavers have not tried to killed him so dark seid would definitely be excessive here, but Nudi would be worrying if he does not return... (Too nervous, too disheartened to register more or even want to, the most he caught are general directions of thoughts and feelings—flowing and flaring much too close against his senses.)

It goes on and on—soon there was the agitation of the marketplace, numerous tiny auras of elementals wandering aimlessly around beorc casters, noises, colors, voices; then, a night and a day in a dim cramped place where he felt his body weaken by the second, unable to sleep. (From its beginning to its ending, the memory is a blur of signals, images, sounds, foreign thoughts and foreign emotions without rest.)

Then out again—no sun then, less noise on the streets, then an entrance. Stairs, a narrow corridor with carmine velvet curtains everywhere and loud music covering conversations.

Many large bodies clad in extravagant clothes, all gathered in a dim cramped space, then another pair of curtains that are quickly drawn shut, money appearing...disappearing, different slavers—his wings are yanked open and he can see what the one who took a sharp tool his thinking before they hide it and motion him over—terror makes him stumble in his panicked retreat—there was a yank on his bindings, hands on his shoulders, _bring it over_ , scornful words, derision between the sellers when he recoils from the clippers, wings closed tight against his back, as he sings Sorrow witlessly again and again, hopping to pass out as soon as possible...

Then, an interruption, impatient discussion—an aura of shock, throwing insults, the others taken aback, forced into apologizing, silently sneering—they _bargain_  and Rafiel tries to calm his heartbeat, feeling grateful beyond his wit for the bidder who had stopped them...even now he is nauseous.

His neck is a knot, raw nerves jumping at every noise and move, and every slip of his thick locks of hair onto his eyes further unnerving him; he has to fight against instinct to keep his wings safely hidden behind him. He jumps out of his skin when hands forcefully unfold his wings, grabbing, turning him; mouth, shoulders, legs—but he has seen the other laguz that has been waiting, sit still like the dead in a back corner (lean, dead eyes, silent mind, naked like an animal...it makes the touches bearable. He could—he wants to sing for the male cat, but Sorrow has taken too much of his energy, so he is just glad that they have left him half of his clothes even if he has to struggle to use what he has left to cover himself— _genuine songbird, rare brand, already tame and unmarred—but we can take care of his wings for you, the missing jewel of your estate, a magnificent gift_...his mind begins to understand that he is not a person in their eyes. The other bidders are a blur or extravagant colors and buzzing noises and eager movement. His clothes are taken out of the view and returned more than once. Maybe he would have been better without learning the Modern Tongue.

He doesn't try to see the buyer. He has to focus not to fall down, but is no longer sure of why it mattered. There's the sound of beorc, tiny round stones tumbling over themselves in large pouches—ah yes, he (is) was a prince, heir of kingdom, how had it come to this?—he must not let them know. Would they rise or lower the price? — _fleeting thought, sour, foreign_ —No. Would they learn, he would be lucky if they only cut his flight feathers instead of silencing him on the spot.

Another tug, less forceful, he is set to walk again, but...but the world is swaying quicker under his feet and nausea is getting the better of his senses...he wants to ask them to wait _wait_ —yet common herons don't speak their language and so he can't afford it... His legs are no longer carrying his weight. Distantly, he registers panic and uproar in the minds above. He closes his eyes and senses to them and to the world~

  
...  
His hand wanders the bedclothes searching for the arm of a queen. With a sad sigh he brings it under his back to keep from fisting it again.

The heart of the beorc beside him feels full of warm reliance...he has felt safe and valued here...so why . . .

Rafiel wills his mind empty, focus on senses alone...and feels a familiar soreness in his throat. How long has he been singing?

Now there is only silence to answer him. He feels her aura twinkle...betraying her calm countenance in waves of confusion.

Ah right.

Tanith has greeted him, and he has responded with a galdr.

But he is still not sure how to answer her words.

This Begnian knight...can be found somewhat narrow-minded on one or two topics. But her honor and respect have steadily grown on his heart, enough that he can trust her without question—and his faith does not stand alone; he can tell exactly what the knight has meant and felt by the second that the three words of greeting has left her mouth. (One glimpse of her mind can tell him about her designs quicker than she can sort them into coherent thoughts herself. And she never tries to cloud her thoughts or crypt her emotions. ...Does she have any clue?)

Tanith is...well, other tribes, tribes who do not consider themselves married when they consume each other's body, would still call them _lovers_  at least, and it feels fitting. Both ways, she is a world away from the slavers. Or the buyers—her mind and her heart are a clean contrast from that of the old duke who has...bought him.

But...Rafiel does not feel like _hers_.

Seeking a pier, an altar, an intimate aura to love is something that he cannot imagine living without, ever since the sky has been lost for him. But giving his will over to a queen stands on a whole different dimension. It had occurred naturally with his wolf mate, but...it was something unique and he cannot want to belong to another person in the way he had to Nailah. It is not that his lady knight...that he cannot grow to get used to...but he simply doesn't think that it could happen in the manner she... He clears his mind. She _will_  understand.

"Yours," the heron whispers quietly, like a question. He covers her hand, trying to convey warmth. "My dear," he murmurs just loud enough for her ears with as much kindness as he finds, eyes staying ahead to refrain from pressure her. "If it comes to this, I will let you know."

Rafiel feebly tries to clear a sad weariness from his eyes before turning his head toward her. "What do you say?" he adds and they both know that the question comes but as a polite afterthought.

His lady knight blushes, her aura in a mess as she faces away (wounded pride turns into guilt—there is an apology on the tip of her tongue—another form of pride rise, tie it up and takes it down; gallantry is silenced). There is a semblance of balance in her mind before she speaks out.

"I...fair enough, my Prince."

At this, he blinks and hums with sad hesitation. With that, the false countenance of her hearts is no more.

"I mean—" She frowns, struggles against a new apology with a funny face, her heart is burning as red as her head— his heart yearns to put her out of her misery and he bit his lip to resist from hugging her huffing with mirth.

Rafiel settles for a few pats on her head and covers his giggle behind a hand when her wounded pride turns into cold flames lightening her eyes in a searing glare. But he feels numerous promises in the seething shadows that it casts in her mind, and all of them are not so different when they make his heart aflutter with a charming thrill of fear.

Eyes lingering on a point beside his head, she reaches up before thinking. He unconsciously hunches his wings closer to his back to keep them from flapping away uselessly. When balance returns to her heart along with her mask of stern tranquility before she does anything, he is surprised and appreciative.

Tanith's curiosity grows minutely as her hand rises to the level of his ear. He knows what to expect long before she meets his wing and traces the tight curve of its fold. In the wake of their caress, her fingers leave a ghosting touch on his down and Rafiel wonders whether he is going to remind her of the hour or, instead, try to see for how long into the morning he can keep her in bed. Today her services are not required in Sienne, after all... Curiosity win over order and he slowly opens a wing before her eyes—inches from her fingers, as nonchalantly as possible.

For now he has someone to tease and nest with—even if there is no love of that kind for him anymore. There is room for other things though—feelings almost as strong. Slowly, his mind begins to register the Captain's face. <i _> Striking eyes, regal stance, the fragile shine in her eyes when he traps her between curled wings, the smell of her hair with the feel of her hands on his waist, the song of cold fire running beneath skin as soft and hard as ivory..._ 

* * *

 

His captain has pride. Not more than everyone else he had known, yet maybe, he thinks, more than what would be useful for a knight and though he hopes that this trait will not push her to do harsh things in her work, he will surely derives pleasure from it.

She is proud, formal, stubborn, tightly attached to authority, maybe excessively serious, honor-bound, and strong willed beyond worlds. In a few tiny details, her embrace reminds him of wolves, her hair has the smell of the winds that catches through her pegasus feathers. Her mind feels secure and her heart feels good against his senses.

Slipping under the skin of a woman (of her...well... _quality_ —the versatility of the word seem perfect)— is a process which requiers time and subtlety. And in that regard, her character is almost like a present from Ashunera: one that takes time to unwrap, and as he does so it get less and less necessary for him to hide the pleasure that he takes in the process.

_How could he not revel in a steadfast body, a will of steel and so many honed feelings...when under all of these layers hums the secretive glow of a naked soul waiting for a song, for the coaxing of seid magic?_ _How could he not take pleasure in being the first, often the sole lover able to reach, inhabit, change or melt a grown warrior from their core?_

There is no predatory desire in him; the promise of power is a tickle of playful affection dancing on the back of his mind. The strength he derives from that unique intimacy yet unknown to her, brings no more eagerness than impatience to be attained. There is simply experience—about thirty years of it before he met this beorc woman—anticipation, knowledge and satisfaction, all arisen in a sort of bubbling giddiness behind his smiles when he watch her confident strides.

He wonders what he will do after she is gone, though.

He doesn't think there is much left to know after having learned to fly thrice and having sung _four_  lifesongs, now.

His clan has always been seen as an incarnation of order by beorc and laguz alike.

But balance does not mean occultation of the nature of chaos. Yune can be the flutter of joy, the surprise of renewal as simple as harmless mischief in balanced hearts. Yune is important; they all need her...if in measured amount.

Sometimes, he thinks about how Lehran's soul has strayed from Ashunera and sought war against Yune for a revenge that he regarded as absolution. His clan has always know that excess in either form cannot be healthy. He knows that their father must also worry about Reyson.

Sometimes, he can hear songs echoing, far in the south, they often have the accents of Rebirth; a powerless galdr for the soul who knows loss...a natural emotion. Yet, he misses Bliss. He has considered going to his father to ask him to sing this galdr to him again...but bringing Tanith under the trees would raise a wave of too many questions—some for which he has no answer, other that he feel too weak to face. But...he doesn't want to leave her side, doesn't want to know whether he will be able to return after leaving her.

...He wonders if maybe, she would agree to receive his father here.

  
_Later. Soon, his senses tell him._

He recalls what she has said about his role on Tellius, now that he is less terrified of his mind. There are some reservations about her opinion...and he is not sure that it is enough reason to feel useful even when his family is doing much better than he could.

But he will live.

As long as there will be someone to balance or inspire, he will be a galdrsinger.

_He-he can survive like this._

...Extend wings to the sky and give voice to echo, to reinforce the few remaining songs of Serenes...

_Well..._

_let it be_

**Author's Note:**

> __
> 
> No shade of Sorrow lasts long in the heart of the Herons, though this galdr carries a weight never completely shed:  
> Each caster knows the sour tingling of the mantle of Pity,  
> Yet both songs house light in their dim vibrations.


End file.
